Jackie O. on a Prairie

As for now, I’d like you to have no illusions that although I would love to truly pick up pro-status photography, I am not a photographer. I’d also like to share that as of now, my goal with this blog is to practice consistency, ask questions and regularly “produce” media—not really to cement a journalistic or style blogger presence.

So yes, the cruddy photos are sort of on purpose. It is not my wish to cultivate in myself a need to take 4,000 shots to pick the best Insta-worthy one (that’s a behavior I wish to flee from and kill), nor is it my wish to cooly make you think I know more about what I’m doing with this fashion stuff than I actually do. I have skills with graphics, and I’m going to practice them, but I won’t be pretending that this bloggy thing isn’t something you can do too, just as well and certainly better.

So now that that disclaimer has put us all to sleep, let’s begin.

From elementary school to senior year, I changed what career wanted pretty much on a yearly basis.

Teacher. No.
Astronaut. I want to fly but I don’t want to blow up in space. Or study so hard just to blow up in space.
Artist. What would that even mean…
Author. I can’t write in a straight line; I can barely walk in one…
Fashion designer. The Devil Wears Prada killed it for me. Too cutthroat.
Fashion illustrator! Where does this fit in..?
Graphic designer! Journalist! Multimedia queen!

What am I even saying now?

Basically, I enjoy fashion. I love the art of it, the comfort of it, the performance of it. And there’s no denying that it does all three of these things for the world.

And we dress the part for certain things don’t we? Part of this group or on our way to becoming this great thing. We say no to this or that shirt or accessory. We feel more confident in this old favorite jacket or with this new scarf. Sometimes maybe we look in front of the mirror and say, “No, that looks stupid,” when we really mean someone dumb would walk out the door in that.

I don’t know. Have you felt that? Even if casually, the sort of shaming you might do for combinations of CLOTHES of all things before another soul even lays eyes on you. And you think about how uncomfortable you’ll be no matter what they think because ~you’ll know~ how foolish you’ve felt and how long it took to compose this clown suit.

Poop. I don’t know what else to call it. But it is poop, isn’t it? To put so much energy into the threads we don. To waste it. Fashion is powerful, and power is a thing none of us should gaze on for too long at a time.

Recently (wow, this is brand new information) I’ve worried deeply about every angle others could judge my feelings, intentions and worth—whether through social media presence, action/non-action, everything.

So when it comes to personal style, this little bird is relearning how to fly, and to ask as few questions as possible when it comes to what I think my clothes will say about me.

“People will think I’m trying too hard if I wear this hat…”

Nope, I like wearing it, so I’m going to.

“I actually really like this thing a lot, and if I wear it to this party, well, it’s almost played out to me that I feel confident in it. Maybe I’ll choose something else.”